


A Series of Happenstance

by Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:10:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of SinJa drabbles, re: requests on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a rare thing, that Ja’far stays.

Sinbad thinks, probably, that he was drunk last night, judging by the dull throb in his temples. More than likely, Ja’far hauled him to bed again, and it’s highly likely that while drunk, he wound himself around his advisor and friend, refusing to let him leave.

Sometimes, he makes good decisions while drunk.

He makes better ones while sober, though—like right now, when he buries his face into the soft, pale silkiness of Ja’far’s hair, nuzzles into the back of his neck until the other man stirs and shifts with an irritated grumble. Even if Ja’far doesn’t _like_ being woken up like this, it’s impossible to help himself, not when Ja’far is there, warm and deceivingly small curled up within Sinbad’s bed coverings, and there’s little he can do _but_ touch, his hands splaying over lithe hips, dragging down velvety soft thighs, all softness over steel while his mouth fastens to the side of that pale, pale neck.

Ja’far doesn’t protest, though the words are on his tongue. Sinbad _knows_ they are, because after all these years, he knows Ja’far, knows him better than he knows himself now, and so he’s careful not to push too far, even as his fingers roam, slick when they drag inside and make Ja’far gasp and twist and shudder. He’s careful and slow and intends to savor all of this as he spoons behind the other man, kisses at his shoulders, his neck, turns his head ‘round to kiss the corner of his mouth, and there’s little better than having Ja’far like this, flushed and shivering and not _inclined_ to complain.

Everything is slick and tight and hot and _good_ and god, does he like being the one to muffle Ja’far’s cries with a hand over that pretty mouth, with his fingers twisting against Ja’far’s tongue. Sinbad loves watching his face twist in sort of agonized ecstasy as he comes, loves being the cause of it all, and that’s even better than being able to leave some sort of a claim—his mouth on Ja’far’s neck, his own seed when he spills deep inside.

It’s a guilty pleasure, isn’t it, to hope that Ja’far stays more often? (He should take a wife, Ja’far tells him time and time again, but isn’t this much more _satisfying_?)

In the end, Sinbad is a slave to his own happiness, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s something wrong with Sinbad, Ja’far thinks.

Certainly, he has no room to talk, but he isn’t taking in a child that just tried to kill him without hesitation, someone that held a blade to his throat and nearly succeeded. Then again, Ja’far is now following around the man who _did_ —the man that now smiles at that child and pets his hair (even when Ja’far sort of wants to bite his hand off) and teases him and kind of worries about whether or not he’ll burn in the sun because he’s so pale.

There’s something wrong with him, and Ja’far doesn’t understand it.

Probably, Ja’far thinks, he could kill Sinbad in his sleep, go back to his masters and still be praised. It’s why they sent him, after all; even at 14, he is still their most capable, their most deadly, and there isn’t anyone else that can succeed if he can’t.

Every time he considers it, however, Ja’far thinks of Sinbad’s hand on his head, or the way he grins and laughs and leans far too much on him when he’s drunk, about how _heavy_ he is when he passes out that way on top of Ja’far, his easy breathing sounding more like a big cat’s purring more than anything else.

There’s definitely something wrong with Sinbad, because he’s here and content to be here with _Ja’far_ and while there’s no way he can ever understand it, but Ja’far likes it all the same, and can’t find any will within himself to make that change.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a reason why Ja’far doesn’t share Sinbad’s bed very often, and this, he thinks irritably, is why.

Not only does the man somehow manage to take up 98% of his very, very large bed, but somehow, in the middle of his sleepy thrashing, Sinbad always manages to undress. It’s annoying, not to mention unseemly to wake up to, and Ja’far feels himself pressing a pair of fingers to the bridge of his nose before the sun has even risen.

“Ah,” Sinbad throatily greets upon waking, and Ja’far doesn’t think about how pleasant his voice sounds when sleep-riddled and husky from disuse. “You actually stayed!”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“Cruel. It’s not like I snore—”

“No, you only undress entirely while nearly kicking me off of the bed.”

“Oh, well, there’s that, I suppose.” Sinbad, as per usual, looks entirely unfazed. “You’ll get used to it. At least I didn’t undress you as well—or, ah, rather, it’s a pity. I have a habit of that—”

“I’ll decline getting used to it, thank you very much.” Then, there’s a pause, and Ja’far realizes, belatedly, as his face heats, that the sheets tangled about his legs aren’t exactly the same as nightclothes, and—

God, how didn’t he notice?

Sinbad looks far too pleased with himself. “You’re already used to it.”

Ja’far contemplates stringing him up from the ceiling, and in the end, just barely refrains—Sinbad dangling naked there for his other attendants to walk in on is far more unseemly than him being just naked in bed, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Ja’far can’t fault Sinbad on his generosity and penchant for inviting people to Sindria, let alone within the castle. Not really, at any rate. He’s a good man at his core, and sharing his wealth comes rather naturally.

What he can fault Sinbad on, however, is his poor planning and allocation of resources todealwith so many people (and by people, he means children).

Sharrkan is bad enough—add in a disciple as asinine as he, and destruction is inevitable. Ja’far casually crosses a pair of zeros off of the monthly budget, courtesy of Alibaba.

Normally, Masrur is a godsend, never mind his habits tending towards lateness, but now, with a student of his own that tags at his heels—an untrained, unbridled Finalis, at that—the damages can’t help but skyrocket, and Ja’far finds himself biting a hole in his cheek to keep back his chastising (the girl is rather sensitive, after all).

Finally, it seems Magi tend to have a sort of built-in mechanism to tear things apart, especially beneath Yamuraiha’s hand and her general enjoyment surrounding water. (Ja’far mentally calculates the costs of water damage alone, and smiles (twitchily) through Aladdin’s apologies all the same).

“Sin.”

“Hm?”

“If you bring another one home, there’s no room in the budget for you to go drinking this month.”

Nothing puts a firm cap on spending and children’s frivolity like alcohol.


	5. Chapter 5

Amazingly, Sinbad isn’t drunk.

He’s entirely sober when Ja’far feels those bright, golden eyes on him, following the way he bends and moves. It’s disconcerting, to a point. Ja’far doesn’t like being watched—it makes him nervous, and makes him wonder of next moves and full intentions and—

“Has anyone ever told you how lovely you are, Ja’far?”

It makes his eyes roll towards the ceiling. “Only you,” is the flat retort to follow.  _Only Sinbad, for the past two years, and really, who else would and why should I care?_ He’s an odd bird in nearly every country they visit—pale and light haired and freckled, easily burnt by the desert sun and thus constantly burrowing himself beneath layers. No one gets a good look, and even if they did, it isn’t something they care to see. 

“That’s a shame. I’ll just say it more often, then!”

Standard Sinbad logic, that. Ja’far wants to protest, because it isn’t necessary, he doesn’t need or want to hear it, but Sinbad is faster, his hands warmer, his lips softer when they press against Ja’far’s own, and annoyance turns to a sort of fluttery anxiety, a lingering fear of the unknown and  _why me, why bother, I’m not a woman and I’m not sure I even like this sort of thing and—_

“Let me.” It’s a plead, not an order, and Ja’far wavers.

“Why?”

The question makes Sinbad rock back onto his heels a bit. “Ah. Well, because I want to make you feel good, and—”

“I feel fine already.” 

“… It’s a different kind of good.”

“Assuming I enjoy it,” Ja’far matter-of-factly replies, and Sinbad sighs, raking a hand back through his bangs. 

“Just once,” he pleads, and his face is in Ja’far’s neck again, nuzzling, his lips parting to nip, to gently suck, and Ja’far can’t argue that there  _are_  shivers going down his spine, that his toes are curling a bit in his shoes and he sort of wants to reach for Sinbad’s hair and pull him in closer. “Just once, please—”

He sounds like a man starved, and Ja’far feels his resolve waver just a bit more.

In the end, Ja’far lets him. It’s good, not great, and he has to wonder why Sinbad is so _addicted_ to things like this, to sweaty, slick bodies grinding against one another, to wandering hands that can be too rough or to teeth that leave marks that Ja’far knows he’ll be embarrassed of in the morning. He’s not sure of the allure of having anything  _inside_ , because it hurts at its best, leaves him feeling pathetically weak and helpless and overwhelmed at worst, but god, Sinbad seems to enjoy having him splayed beneath him, legs spread wide and trembling, chest heaving and an arm thrown over his face so he doesn’t have to look at Sinbad’s expressions, doesn’t have to think so much about what his own face is doing when he comes undone. 

“God, let’s do that again sometime,” Sinbad sighs, and Ja’far wonders what he’s made of, to finish and then want more so quickly.

“Can we… not?”  _At least, not so damnably soon._

One would think he kicked a puppy.


End file.
